


Smile!

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consensual Violence, Light Bondage, M/M, Other, Xenobiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's smiling again, and you want nothing more than to rip that expression off his painted face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile!

He's smiling again, and you want nothing more than to rip that expression off his painted face.

“what the fuck are you smiling at?”

Kurloz doesn’t respond, just curls up the tips of those stitched-up lips down at you. That’s another thing that grates on you- he always looks down at you, while everyone you met since that growth spurt at six-and-a-half sweeps was shorter. Granted, Kuloz is a Capricorn (just like you), three sweeps older, actually stands up straight (unlike that permanent question-mark your spine makes) and his shoes have an extra inch of rubber at the bottom, just for that little extra “fuck you”.

All that, and he has the nerve to smile down at you- you, the messiah come! The again, you know all about how to knock other down to their rightful place in the world. Equius, for example.

With only a thought to your Strife Specibus, you club is in your hand. He doesn’t flinch, even as you bring it to the back of his knee, and make him tumble to the ground. A snort escapes his nose, and he scrambles to his knees, hands in his lap and head down submissively. You put the club under his chin, directing his head to lift, and- okay, that’s a much better angle for him. You will the club gone and grip him by the hair. He grins at that.

“i said WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMILING AT?”

He blinks slowly, and then he’s in your head, bone font rattling around in your thinkpan. It gives you a headache.

“ **I AM BLESSED.** ”

You pull his head back and lean over him, relishing the way he winces, drinking up the feeling of superiority. “how are you all up and blessed, motherfucker?”

Smiling, a-fuckin’-gain. “ **THE MESSIAHS HAVE CHOSEN ME FOR THE HIGH HONOUR OF SERVING YOU. TO THINK, I SHARE MOTHERFUCKING BLOOD WITH A WICKED SAVIOUR.** ”

You don’t know why that makes you angry, but it does, demonstrated as you throw him to the floor, pinning him with your knees on either side of his chest (not like you have to- he’ll do whatever you say). Your hands press around his throat, and he just smiles, because damn, he’s already dead, he doesn’t need to breathe.

You shift, and dig your claws into his neck, and through the pain that screws his eyebrows down, he smiles wider like he’s going to rip stitches. “ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS, MOTHERFUCKER?”

You’d meant it as an insult, but then his gloved fingers dig into your thighs while his dead eyes narrow, and he keeps. Fucking. _Smiling_.

“ **DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKING STOP, BROTHER.** ”

“shit, you’re really enjoying this.” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

His eyes go wide as he slips into another round of chucklevoodoo, and you try your gogdamn best not to let him know how much it freaks you out that he can just root around inside your mind like that. “ **I HAD ALMOST FORGOT WHAT LIFE ALL UP AND FELT LIKE. THANKS FOR THE WICKED REMINDER, BROTHER.** ”

You want to hurt him. You want to break his legs until he’s shorter than you. You want to slit his veins to see how close your blood really matches. You want to hear what a scream sounds like without a tongue.

You want him to **stop smiling**.

You grab his hair by the crown, lock your elbow to hold his head down, and slide one sharp nail done the side of his face. Its streaks away a line of paint, and he just grins, until you hook that claw under one of his stitches. Finally, his lips press into a thin, straight line. His eyes settle in that way they do before he shoves himself into your head, but you cut him off by snapping the stitch.

It doesn’t pop like you expected, more of a prolonged tug because the thread is stronger than you thought; it has to hurt, like ripping out a piercing. His eyes screw shut, and he makes a muffled noise, but you’re satisfied.

He tenses, and sits up, and next thing you know, you’re against the wall. Your body feels useless and limp as he lifts you off the ground from where he’s got you by the horns. Suddenly, you’re scared- _really scared_ \- because you haven’t felt helpless since your lusus died, and you’re only small to Kurloz.

“ **THAT IS AN OATH, MOTHERFUCKER, BETWEEN THE MESSIAHS AND I. IT’S MOTHERFUCKING BIGGER THAN YOU.** ”

You shouldn’t push his buttons, you know that, but you’ve never seen him angry before. You _really want to see him angry_. So you curl your fist and give him a square uppercut to the bottom of his jaw. He drops you, and you slump against the wall, spread your stance, get ready for his first hit in this fistfight you just started, pretend it doesn’t frighten you how disproportionately tall he is as he straightens his spine, cracks his neck...

You easily deflect the right hook with your forearm, and it only hits you then that he was feigning a hook- when his fist collides with the wall behind you, it opens, latches onto your shirt, and throws you to the floor. The elevated heel of his ridiculous boot digs into the mid of your back.

“SHIT! MOTHERFUCKIN’ BITCH-ASS-!” you curse, because you can’t lose. Gamzee _motherfucking_ Makara cannot _lose_. Your brother digs the corner of his heel into your back, twists until the insults flurrying out of your mouth are expletives. You growl wordlessly, and twist your neck painfully, trying to catch the look on his face. His eyes are wide and expecting- _fuck here it comes_.

“ **ARE YOU UP AND DONE, MOTHERFUCKER?** ”

It sounds like something you would say, if you had any sort of handle on the fury that burns you alive. Alternately, (complimentarily,) he’s completely calm. It hits you briefly that this is how he owns people; just commands with raw power he doesn’t use. He’s only fighting because you want to, and he’s basically equivocally licking your shoes in that freaky hero-worship way of his.

It occurs to you, pinned to the floor under the heel of his boot, that he’s only doing this because you want him to. That’s another reason you hate him getting in your brain. He figures stuff out like that.

“get the fuck off of me.”

It comes out smaller than you meant, but he listens. Of course he does. He holds out a hand to help you up, but you ignore it. He’s still taller than you are, so you point down and he kneels, like a good little bitch. “YOU’RE ONLY DOING WHAT I FUCKING TELL YOU TO, AIN’T YOU?”

He nods once, curtly, dutifully. “since you know so motherfuckin’ well, why don’t you tell me what i want?”

The purple-blood fucking smiles, one side of his mouth at a time, like there’s some huge fuckin’ secret he’s not telling. He stands slowly, watching you the whole time, unfurling and extending, and he glares down at you- _not this again-_

“ **I’LL MOTHERFUCKING SHOW YOU.** ”

Your heart is pounding, because you can’t believe this is happening. He pushes down on your shoulder until you’re on your knees, pushes down the front of those purple shorts, works at the snap of the skeleton pants underneath. Your positions are reversed from what they were- always were- and he looks even bigger than he is from down here (which should not possible) as he reaches under the fabric- _that is a bonebulge. That is a bonebulge pushing insistently against your lips. That is a bonebulge in your mouth. **There is a bonebulge in your mouth.**_

Your jaw is dropped like a slitherbeast, because your teeth are sharp, and that can’t be comfortable, but he pushes in anyways until he’s against the back of your throat. You can’t breathe- _there’s a bonebulge in your airway_ \- and it kind of hurts, because you’ve never done this! He pulls back, lets you gasp and draw your lips over your teeth, then pushes back in, further.

It’s slimy, and thick, and tastes wrong- tastes like you. He moves in and out at a pace like a heartbeat- well, a normal heartbeat; yours is in your ears, out of control, loud enough to cover the sound of velcro as he pulls off his gloves. He pulls out, you cough, splatter purple on the gap of his pants before the Capricorn pulls you back on again, suddenly, too suddenly. You gag, gag, wrench back, but he holds you by the matted hair, by the horn. You’re angry, but still make the effort to dull your teeth with your lips and swallow around the intrusion before you choke.

He lets you breathe again, fucking finally, shoving you on your back. You hit your head on the hardwood, throw a halfhearted “motherfuck” at him. His fingers are hooked into either side of your waistband before he yanks down and wraps an (oddly cold, considering how often its gloved) hand around your bonebulge, and pumps quickly. You bulge wraps around his slender fingers possessively, but he slips out easily from the slickness.

The older Makara strokes your slit once, then presses his (way too long) fingers into your nook. Your hips buck up reflexively, as a singular “SHIT!” slips out of your still-gooey mouth. That’s apparently really fucking amusing from the way he smiles as he _fuckin’_ curls his _fuckin’_ fingers, and _motherfuckin_ ’ twists- fuck _fuck FUCK,_ that’s good! He does one deep jab that sends a lightning bolt up your spine and withdraws. You barely have the sentience to kick your shoes off before he tugs your sweatpants down, and then he’s back in- better than fingers, _way_ better than fingers.

He goes slow at first, gentle (because he doesn’t want to hurt you (because he still worships you)), but that’s okay; at least there’s something alleviating the pressure, as it builds again. You want more, you want the fight, and you try to voice your want, but your mouth is dry and sticky. The Capricorn leans in close to your ear, and you hiss out “harder.”

You will never speak of this, of the way he leans over you, shifts his legs apart, and thrusts like he wants to break something inside of you. You feel sick, feverish, and he must too because A) He’s wearing a fucking turtleneck and B) he stops, gasps, and sits up to remove said sweater.

His skin is of your colour, but you’re convinced he died of starvation before the session took him. You can make out his every bone; his upper torso is corrugated by visible rib cage, but then it just drops off, shrinks to nothing, until his pelvis juts out. He’s watching you eye him, nervous that the only people who could have possibly seen real skin are his kittybitch and maybe moirail (fuck if you remember their names). His bulge twitches impatiently inside you, so you put his mind to ease by biting into the flesh of his exposed neck.

Kurloz jumps, clenches his jaw and forces his hand over your face, pushing you back down to the floor. He pushes your shirt up, and you arch your back to make it easier. Instead of pulling it all the way off, when it reaches your wrists, he twists it up, and ties it between. You don’t fight. _Why don’t you fight?_

Grabbing you by the hips, he rams back in, and scrapes his nails up your chest. You like being able to just lay back and enjoy it, not have to do the work, hold Terezi down, or worry about getting her off so she keeps convincing herself this is kismesissitude, and not just an abusive outlet for your molten rage. You’re not an outlet for Kurloz. He doesn’t have rage, just does as he’s told, what you tell him, what you’re subconsciously telling him.

There’s rage in your stomach, swirling there, boiling, like you want to fight him, but you know yourself better. It’s not really rage, but it sure as fuck feels like it: heat growing inside of you, expanding, devouring, leaving a sheen of sweat on your skin.

You didn’t realize your eyes were closed, but they’re open now. Your brother’s over you, panting, sweating off his paint, bleeding from the stitch you ripped. He looks like an oil painting, and you feel hazy, disconnected, surreal. And horny.

Oh-so very horny.

You want it to be over already, because the waiting- the pulses, the chemicals, the slick friction and shock waves- are killing you. Your bulge aches, and reaches out for some kind of relief. You bring your hands forward to relinquish it, but Kurloz pins them back down more roughly than he needs to. You try to growl or cuss him out, but it leaves your mouth in a jumbled heap of whimpers. You, Gamzee motherfuckin’ Makara, are whimpering like an absolute pussy. You can’t find it in you to care.

He takes his free hand to wrap thin fingers around your all-too-eager bulge. The spike in your heart rate could ruin richter meters. He rubs you out quick, and you’ve found your words again, words like “motherfuck” and “shit, titty, fuck _yes!_ ”. Your genetic material pours over his hand, your stomach, his chest, and he fucks you harder, bracing both hands on the ground- one too slippery to stay in place. His eyes are screwed shut, and jaw tensed up as he pulls out and jacks off onto you, wherever it lands. If you weren’t so blissfully hazy, you’d be pissed.

When he’s done, he’s gasping steadily through his nose, and collapses on the floor at your left. You let afterglow hang until the fluids on your chest start to dry, rip your hands with minimal effort from your shirt, and sit up. Kurloz reaches out, and pulls you haphazardly into him, cheek smashed painfully against his pronounced collarbone. You lift your head, and try to pull free, to no use. “don’t tell me you’re a motherfuckin’ cuddler.” you snark.

He smiles lightly. “ **YOU ARE.** ” It barely hurts inside your brain as one of his hands presses and raises the corners of your mouth. _Smile!_

You narrow your eyes, and punch him in his stupid face.


End file.
